


The Company We Keep

by beetle_stomper



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Gun Violence, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5083651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle_stomper/pseuds/beetle_stomper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He believes in humanity, that all people deserve the chance for a better life. He's willing to risk everything to make a dead woman's dream a reality, and bring clean water to a world ravaged and poisoned by war. He believes in basic human kindness, compassion, that given the chance, people will make the right moral decision. Too bad his best chance for survival is a group possessing none of those qualities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Company We Keep

Derek stared morosely at the shot glass in front of him, wondering if there was more film on the glass or the drink itself. The tiny shack was hot, smokey, and practically empty, still managing to be cramped with all the gauche of two scrap lumber tables and five misshapen stools. He and his brother Weeche were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a plank over two corroding metal barrels.

They'd stumbled across the place completely by accident. It was tucked under a rocky outcrop, in the middle of the badlands, where they'd ended up lost. Derek was glad to be out of the elements as night settled in, but didn't think the Ghoul inhabiting the place had any right to call it a bar.

Weeche sniffed his own drink suspiciously, then threw it down his throat. His leathery face twisted in disgust, eyes clenched shut, and Derek heard him retch.

"Shoulda kept on," Weeche grunted. He looked nothing like his brother, squared and swarthy compared to Derek's fine, almost delicate features. "This zombie's no moonshiner, he's a fuckin' swindler. This tastes like turpentine and piss."

He glared at the Ghoul, who met his stare with dull, milky eyes.

"You boys found the one source of strong drink in a hundred miles," he rasped, "and you're gonna sit there bitching about it?" He took a drag off a cigarette, leaving scraps of skin on the chewed end.

"This smells like piss," Derek tapped the rim of the dirty glass, "and he says it tastes like piss, so now I'm wondering if I just paid ten caps for piss."

"If you don't want it, pretty boy," the bartender leaned his forearm on the bar, accentuating the shotgun slung over his shoulder, "give it here. I'll sell it again."

Derek set his teeth, wondering if they'd been incredibly naive to give up their weapons. His twin pistols and Weeche's sawn-off shotgun were out of reach on a shelf behind the Ghoul, who had been perfectly clear about his contingencies. They could give up their weapons and drink, they could turn around and walk away, or they could find out just how fast he was with his own massive combat shotgun.

After admiring the rows of human scalps on the wall, they'd decided not to test their luck.

"Well?" The Ghoul tapped two fingers inpatiently. "Make up your mind."

Derek scowled from under sandy blonde hair, picked up the glass, and swallowed the shot. Putrid, liquid fire hit the back of his throat. He choked, barely managing to keep from spraying murky liquor all over the room. Weeche whacked him on the back, making the stool creak morosely.

"This is fucking paint thinner," Derek managed to cough, stomach and brain in an epic battle over whether or not to vomit.

"I didn't say it was _good_ ," the Ghoul growled, "I said it was strong. Now you gonna cry about it, or you gonna drink?"

In the few seconds it had taken the moonshiner to speak, Derek was feeling the truth behind his words; heady warmth spread from his belly into his limbs almost immediately. He glanced sideways at Weeche, who dropped his chin in a nod.

"Two more." Weeche slapped a handful of caps down.

"You got it." The bartender smirked, refilling their glasses and snatching the caps in one swift motion. "So, what brings you boys to my neck of the Waste?"

"Salvage." Derek rolled the glass between his hands, knowing it was going to be a minute before his stomach could handle a second round of abuse. "The human compass over here decided this'd be a great shortcut."

"He ain't the first." The Ghoul shook his head. "Most of my business comes from 'shortcuts'. Where you headed?"

"Shut your goddamn mouth, Derek." Weeche scowled furiously. "You tryin' to get us shot in the back?"

The Ghoul rolled his eyes.

"Listen, Sunshine," he tapped ash off his cigarette, "If I want to scrape around in the dust for scraps, I got plenty of opportunity. See, I don't have to. There's enough treasure hunting out here to keep me in good business." He indicated the row of murky bottles behind him. "Supply is short, demand is high. I'm just making conversation."

"Don't listen to him." Derek glared sideways at his brother. "He's just bitchy he got us fucking lost."

"We ain't fuckin' _lost_ ," Weeche snapped, "I got good info this is the quickest way to hit the 77."

"It's four days following the foothills," Derek snapped back, "so this wasn't a goddamn shortcut."

They'd had the argument several times. Despite the evidence stacked against him, Weeche remained insistent he knew where they were going. Derek had finally given up trying to make him admit that getting vague directions was a far cry from knowing the route.

"You're looking for the 77?" The bartender took a long drag from his cigarette. "Where'd you come from?"

"Gibbet." Derek ignored the murderous look he was getting from his brother. "Or Gibber, something like that."

"Gibbon." The Ghoul gave him a look that might have been sympathetic. "You've been headed east?"

Derek felt his stomach sink. "Yeah. For almost a week."

The Ghoul shook his head.

"Should've been a three day hike. You're lost, boys."

Weeche swore loudly and slammed his fist on the plank. Derek repeated the sentiment, and angrily swallowed his shot. It hurt less than the first, but that was probably due to the numb feeling in his mouth.

"Three days," Weeche repeated furiously, gripping his head in both hands. "We've been going in fucking circles."

"This place will do that." The bartender snuffed his cigarette out on the wall. "You'd've been better off sticking to the road, but what can you do?"

"I fucking told you so." Derek pulled a hand down his face. "Never take local shortcuts. We could have been halfway back, but no, 'it'll take two days off the trip!'"

"It would have," Weeche looked ready to start throwing blows, "if your stupid ass knew how to read a fuckin' compass!" He drained his own glass and slammed it down.

"Boys, boys." The Ghoul's tone was placating. "Relax, have a few drinks. I've got some supplies I can sell you, if you're running short. It'll get you back to the highway, at least."

Derek considered their meager food stores, and the more pressing issue of water. Rather, the lack thereof. The streams they'd come across were toxic, completely undrinkable. They'd been trying to gather condensation overnight, but the arid badlands produced less than a bottle each time.

"How far to the highway from here?" He asked, feeling a heady buzz spreading through his body. His stomach was still unhappy with him, but Derek was finding it easier not to care.

"Following the path, about two and a half days." The Ghoul shrugged. "If nothing slows you down."

"Like what?" Weeche wanted to know.

The bartender waved one patchy hand dismissively. "Nothing you haven't already seen. There's Radscorpion nests, sinkholes, radiation hotspots, rockslides- hey!"

The Ghoul moved like lightning. Before Derek could even think to reach for his pistols, the barrel of a shotgun was pointed just over his shoulder. He went for them a split second later, hands meeting empty holsters.

"What the fuck?!" Weeche demanded, fumbling for the weapon that was equally absent from his hip.

"Easy, folks." There was a gurgle in the Ghoul's windpipe; he spit something wet onto the ground with an unpleasant splat. "You hand those over, I'll sell you some liquor, and  we'll all get along just fine."

Derek spun around, feeling the flimsy legs of the stool twist dangerously. A short woman and a very tall, very thin man were in the doorway, weapons in hand.

"I knew it!" The man grinned wide, shouldering a shabby hunting rifle. "It _is_ a bar, and you owe me a drink."

"Some bar." The woman didn't lower her semi-automatic pistol. "I've tripped over bigger potholes."

"Lady," the Ghoul grumbled, "unless you know of a better dive over the hill, this is the best you're gonna see for days. You buying, or leaving?"

"She's buying." The man shouldered past, ducking his lanky frame into the cramped shack. "Damn, it smells in here."

The woman lowered her gun slowly, keeping eye contact with the Ghoul. He shouldered his shotgun and spread both hands out.

"Welcome to the Piss Pot. House rules- the guns stay with me. You puke, you do it outside."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. "So I'm weaponless, and you've got a full arsenal. Doesn't seem like good odds for me." She nodded pointedly at the scalps on the wall.

"That spot's reserved for troublemakers." He held out a hand expectantly. "I'm just running a business, scrappy as it is. I learned early, strong drink and loaded weapons don't mix."

"You're a moonshiner, then?" She held an arm out, preventing the man with her from moving any farther into the room. "How strong is 'strong'?"

"Let's put it this way." The Ghoul didn't drop his arm. "You don't start trouble, it'll make you forget any you got."

The woman snorted. "That's a big order to fill." She huffed out a resigned sigh, looking around the tiny space distastefully. "How much for two shots?"

"She means a bottle," the man said, throwing his pack on the floor. He twisted his torso with a grunt, spine crackling. His head nearly brushed the ceiling; he would have been an imposing presence, if he'd had an ounce of meat on his frame.

"No, I mean two shots." The woman gave him a venomous glare. "Don't push it."

"Ten caps a shot." The Ghoul watched the newcomers carefully. "But first, the guns."

The woman pursed her lips, and looked at the man. "What do you think, dumbass?"

"You're asking me?" He shrugged the rifle off his shoulder and tossed it at the bartender, narrowly missing Derek's head. The Ghoul snatched it deftly out of the air. "I wanna get wasted."

The woman sighed, flicking the safety on. She reached between the two men to hand her pistol over, then unbuckled her pack to search through the contents. She took a moment to scrutinize Derek and Weeche. Her face was set in a sour scowl, and Derek knew immediately no amount of liquor was going to make them friends.

"Hey, guys!"

An unsettling grin was plastered over the man's face as he shouldered himself against Weeche and the wall, slamming his elbows on the bar. His angular face was scarred, a thick rope of knotted tissue running vertically down his left cheek. It looked like his nose had been broken more than once, the bridge squashed nearly flat. "Crazy running across the same shithole, huh?"

Weeche stared at him incredulously. "What the fuck do you think you're doin'?"

The man raised an eyebrow into stringy black hair. "I'm getting a drink, the fuck are _you_ doing?"

The woman growled, grabbed him by the shirt, and hauled him back. She tossed a bag of caps on the bar with a grimace, and punched the man hard in the ribs.

"Fuckin' A!" He flinched back. "Pick a new spot once in a while!"

"Make it four." She punched him again. "Please don't kill him."

Derek could tell Weeche was seriously considering it. He glowered at the man, teeth clenched and a muscle ticking in his jaw. The bartender was equally observant, and slammed two new glasses down loudly.

"That was nice of the lady," he gurgled. "Let's keep it nice, I don't need blood on my floor."

Pouring with a practiced hand, he slid two drinks toward the end of the bar. The woman reached past Derek to grab them, giving him a chance for a better look.

She wasn't attractive. Sun-worn and leathery, with short-cropped hair and more angles than curves, she reminded him of the countless lizards he'd seen scuttling through the rocky crags. Though she couldn't have been any older than thirty, deep frown lines cut her face, suggesting that the scowl was permanent. Twin sets of claws were stuck through each earlobe, several more hanging from a string around her neck.

"Thanks for the drink." Derek slid the other glass toward Weeche with a pointed look. "Careful, I think he cuts it with battery acid."

"Hmph." She refused to make eye contact, maneuvering herself into the farthest corner of the room. "Spike, sit your ass down."

The man rolled his eyes dramatically. "I don't want to sit next to you, you're grouchy tonight." Exaggerating every movement, he flopped on the stool next to her. "Ok, I'm here. Can I have my drink now?"

"You don't deserve it," she told him with distaste, "but I lost the bet." She handed him one of the glasses. "Go easy. It's going to kick."

He sneered. "Fuck off, like I've never had moonshine."

"You should listen to the lady." The bartender lit another cigarette, silvery smoke trickling through the holes that used to be his nose. "My brew'll get a Super Mutant stumbling."

"You've had Muties in here?" Derek interjected. "Do the ugly bastards actually drink, or just eat your drunks?"

The Ghoul shrugged.

"A couple of the smarter ones drink. I get a few roll through pretty regular, every couple of months. Don't worry," he smirked as the room collectively snapped their gazes toward the door, "I chase off any Smoothskins before they show up. Customers getting eaten is bad for business."

"I'd like to see a drunk Mutie," the man remarked, critically examining his filthy glass.

"No you wouldn't," the Ghoul told him. "It just makes them meaner."

"Sounds like fun." Spike grinned, and raised the glass a few inches. "Cheers, boss. To pisspot liquor and drunk Muties."

The woman watched with a resigned look as he tossed back the alcohol. His green eyes bugged out, he clapped a hand over his mouth, and swallowed loudly. He immediately devolved into a fit of coughing, clutching the table's edge with one hand and his chest with the other.

"I fucking told you so." The woman smacked him sharply between the shoulder blades. "Breathe, dipshit."

It took him a few moments to collect himself. Gasping for breath and eyes streaming, he scrubbed his mouth with the back of one hand and stared balefully at the Ghoul.

"What the fuck is this, piss and turpentine?"

Derek laughed, elbowing Weeche in the side. "Right?"

Weeche was still staring at the man, violent thoughts written across his face. Derek sighed, and swallowed his shot. It barely hurt, and tasted far less like toxic waste. He supposed he ought to be concerned about that, but was rapidly losing his ability to care. He elbowed Weeche again and tapped the rim of the glass.

"Drink your paint thinner."

Weeche growled low in his chest, not taking his eyes off the pair in the corner. He listened to his brother, however, and snatched the glass up. He emptied it in one loud swallow, slamming it back down with a noise of disgust.

" _Fuck,"_ he gasped. "If this shit kills me, I'm taking you down before I go."

The Ghoul shook his head.

 _"_ Everyone's a critic." He rolled his milky eyes. "Next you're gonna tell me you don't feel it."

"No, I-" Spike coughed again, shaking his head briskly. "I feel my stomach dissolving, if that's what you mean."

The woman gave a short, barking laugh. "I warned you." She sniffed at her own drink, and dipped the tip of her tongue into the murky brew. She grimaced before taking a quick swallow. A deep shudder wracked her body, and she set the half-finished glass aside.

"Wow. That's..." She shuddered again. "That's horrible." She slapped Spike's hand, which had started inching toward the unfinished shot. "Don't you dare."

"Buy me another?"

"Hell no." She took a battered cigarette case from her pocket and stuck one in her mouth. "You already cost me three. You want anything else, you're paying for it."

"Aw!" He tossed his hands up, almost throwing himself off the flimsy stool. "How am I supposed to pay if you haven't paid me?"

The woman shrugged, and lit a match with her thumbnail.

"Sounds like a personal problem."

He glowered at her and flopped over the table, lank hair covering his eyes.

"Grouch," he grumbled morosely.

"Jackass," she spat back.

Derek listened to the exchange with some amusement. He was definitely drunk, and having a pretty good time of it, but couldn't entirely forget the more pressing issues at hand.

"So," he could hear a slur in his voice, "what kinda supplies you got..." he trailed off, suddenly realizing something. "Hey zombie, wha's your name?"

The Ghoul gave him a disparaging look.

"Not important. But thanks for finally asking."

"Fine." Derek curled his lip. "What're you sellin', Rotface?"

The bartender crossed his arms. "What did you need?"

"Water, mostly. Hey Weeche," he turned and elbowed his brother in the side, "we need food?"

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Y'said two days out of this hellscape?"

"I suppose you could make it in two." The Ghoul shrugged. "I wouldn't put any caps on it, but if you don't sleep, it might be possible." He tapped his cigarette thoughtfully. "Don't suppose you're interested in a map?"

Weeche sneered. "Don't need no goddamn-"

" _Yes_ , we'll take a godddamn map." Derek pounded a fist on the bar for emphasis. "Enough with your bullshit, Weeche. We're fuckin' lost."

"And we're about to be broke!" A vein was starting to throb on Weeche's neck. "The fuck good you think a map's gonna do?"

"Well, let's see," Derek's voice was rising, "maybe get us the fuck out of a bunch of razor rocks, Radscorpions, and orange sludge? Or was this all part of the plan, and your stupid ass has a few gallons of water tucked up it? If so, take a shit now, otherwise I'm buying a fucking map!"

The man in the corner cackled.

"Well said, guy." He was rummaging through his pack. "You wanna trade? I'll throw you some water for another drink."

"No, he won't." The woman slapped the back of his head sharply.

"You've got your own water!" he protested.

She made a disgusted noise, and downed the rest of her drink. With a horrified shudder, she slammed the glass on the table and glared at him.

"And you'll be drinking, what, dirt? Like we aren't low enough on supplies."

He sighed loudly. "Fine. Hey Rotface, what'll you give me for my shirt?" He pulled it off by the collar, and Derek found himself staring. The spread of scars over his torso was one of the more impressive he'd ever seen. Badly-healed burns, puckered bullet wounds, and countless keloids covered most of his dusky skin. The worst ran from just above his right collarbone all the way to his hip, thick and ropey. A few smaller threads split off intermittently; it looked like something had split him nearly in two. He was even scrawnier than Derek first thought, every bone visible under a thin layer of wiry muscle.

The Ghoul pulled a face. "Tell you what, Scarface. I'll throw you one on the house if you put your shirt back on."

The man grinned wide, flashing a long, sharp pair of canines. "Deal," he said cheerfully, shrugging himself back into the dirty shirt. He grabbed his glass and was back at the bar in an instant.

The woman made a strangled sound. "You don't have to do that," she told the Ghoul pointedly. " _Really._ "

"If it keeps his clothes on," the Ghoul refilled the glass and passed it back, "I'm calling it a fair trade."

"How is that fair?" Weeche gave them both a nasty look in turn. "You throw free booze to every asshole that starts stripping down?"

"Only the prettiest, or ugliest." The bartender returned the look. "You just got a free round, so I don't see the problem."

"See that, boss?" Spike raised the glass in her direction. "At least someone thinks I'm pretty." He cackled, and threw his head back as he swallowed. Once again, he clapped a hand over his mouth, a look of extreme concentration on his face that Derek recognized as a fight to keep from throwing up. His throat spasmed a few times, then he coughed, shaking his head briskly back and forth.

Behind them, the woman made another unhappy noise. She had a hand over her face, fingertips pressed into her eyes.

"Pour me another." Her tone was defeated. "You got anywhere we can sleep tonight?"

The Ghoul spread his arms out to indicate the cramped shack.

"Pick some floor."

Weeche stared at the woman with a drunken leer. "How 'bout we pick a spot together, lady? You look like you ain't seen a good time in too long."

The woman gave him a disgusted, incredulous look.

"Next time you spot a flying Deathclaw," she snapped, "get back to me."

Derek pressed his forehead into his palm. Weeche was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol. He could only hope those wouldn't include a fistfight.

"Don't be a bitch." Weeche leaned toward her. "What if I buy that drink for ya?"

"Buy me anything you want," she glared at him, "but I'm perfectly happy being a bitch. Over here. By myself."

Weeche opened his mouth to speak again, shutting it with a snap when Spike clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"You watch your goddamn mouth," Spike's voice was chipper, "and point that ugly excuse for a ballsack somewhere else." Completely contrary to his tone, the look on his face was livid.

"The fuck you say to me?" Weeche growled dangerously.

"I said your face looks like a ballsack." Spike's lips pulled back in a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And you better point it somewhere else."

Weeche slapped his hand away and stood up. "I look wherever I damn well please," he slurred. He was several inches shorter, but nearly twice as wide as Spike. "And I'm thinkin', if you're all she's been hanging around, no wonder she's actin' like a _bitch_." He spat the last word out defiantly. "Seems like she could use some time with a real man."

"Sit your ass down, Weeche." Derek shook his head at his brother. "I'm drunk, I'm fuckin' exhausted, I don't want any trouble."

"Good man," the bartender rasped. Derek hadn't even seen him move this time. The barrel of his shotgun was pointed at Spike and Weeche. "You wanna brawl, you're not doing it in here. And you-" he gave Weeche an especially nasty look. "Keep your hands to yourself, Sunshine. The lady said 'no'."

Derek stepped between his brother and the other man. "You're drunk," He told Weeche, trying to push him back onto the stool, "and you're a real son of a bitch when you're drunk."

"I only see one son of a bitch." Weeche spat on the ground. "This scrawny piece of shit right here."

"Back off, Spike." The woman threw her half-finished cigarette on the ground and grabbed his arm. "I don't need this right now. Stay on plan."

"Can't do that, boss." There was a manic glint in Spike's eyes. "This Brahmin-fucker's pissing me off."

" _Please_ ," she begged, "just sit down." She pulled insistently on his arm. "If you do, I'll buy you a pack of cigarettes. Hell, I'll buy you a whole carton."

Derek gripped Weeche by the shoulders, hoping he wouldn't have to literally knock some sense into him. "We'll find some good whores when we get back to town. Leave 'em alone before you do something stupid."

Weeche stared maliciously at his brother, then Spike, then down the barrel of the Ghoul's shotgun. He slumped, and shoved Derek back.

"Fine," he grumbled, reaching into his pocket and scattering a handful of caps over the bar. "Gimme 'nother. Ugly bitch ain't worth it, anyw-"

 _Crack_.

Weeche hit the floor hard. Spike had wrenched himself free of the woman's grasp, hit him with a vicious uppercut, and was on him before anyone else could so much as blink. Derek yelled, the woman yelled, the Ghoul's shotgun roared. Droplets of blood splattered the floor as Spike's fists flew in a blur. Derek grabbed Spike by the shirt and yanked him off, fist back and ready to smash his nose in. Instead, Spike used the momentum to throw himself backward and knock them both into the bar.

The plank broke in two with a resounding crash. Head spinning, Derek stared through a ragged hole in the ceiling. Spike rolled off him, up onto his elbows, and swept a leg out in one quick movement. He caught the bartender behind the ankles and knocked his legs out from under him, then was back on his feet before the Ghoul hit the ground. When he did, the shotgun went off again. Buckshot blasted apart several bottles of moonshine and threw glass everywhere. Derek struggled to get his bearings, watching as the bartender and Spike grappled for the shotgun.

He managed to get on his hands and knees. Glass covered the ground, mostly shards, but a few good-sized chunks were scattered around. He picked up an intact bottleneck and tried to assess the situation. He spotted Weeche, who'd gotten to his feet, in a boxing match with the woman. Blood ran freely from both their faces. Weeche had an advantage in height and strength, but was taking a flurry of quick, furious blows to the gut. She ducked and dodged around his flailing fists, red-stained teeth bared behind a nasty split through her lips.

The Ghoul brought his legs up and kicked Spike in the chest, losing his grip on the shotgun in the process. The man stumbled backward and crashed into Derek again, sending them both careening into a table. The flimsy excuse for furniture became a pile of scrap wood under their combined weight. The shotgun skittered across the floor and into a corner.

"Fucker!" Derek shouted. He swung the bottleneck; Spike caught him by the wrist and drove an elbow into his gut. All the air was forced from Derek's lungs. He gasped and choked for breath, only able to stare at the Ghoul, back on his feet and aiming Weeche's shotgun at them.

Spike followed Derek's gaze. His eyes went wide, and he twisted to the side a split second before buckshot peppered the floor where his head used to be. Spike rolled back onto his shoulders, then his neck, and all the way up on his forearms, legs following in a wide arc. One foot caught the Ghoul under the chin. Spike curled his body in on itself and did a full backflip, landing lightly on his feet. The Ghoul's head snapped back, he took one stumbling step sideways, and collapsed in a heap. Derek scrambled around him and back to his feet, nearly tripping over the shattered remains of furniture.

Spike twisted his scrawny torso at a seemingly impossible angle as Derek swung the broken bottle again. It grazed his ribcage, ripping his shirt and drawing blood. Rather than flinch back, Spike lunged for him, going for the makeshift weapon. Derek pulled his arm back, keeping it out of reach. With an angry yell, he swung low, going for a gut shot. Spike dodged back and brought one leg up in a lightning-fast roundhouse. He caught Derek in the chest, knocking him to the floor once again. He'd gotten his hands underneath himself when something heavy shattered across his back. Bits of what used to be a stool joined the wreckage on the floor.

Fueled by adrenaline and rage, Derek didn't miss a beat. He was on his feet before he realized he'd meant to be there, slicing at Spike's unprotected throat. The man brought an arm up just in time. The glass sliced deep, and the rest of the bottle shattered. Dizzy from alcohol and his most recent encounter with the ground, Derek's momentum spun him in a full circle. On the return, he could only stare as an elbow came for his face; a white-hot starburst exploded in his skull, a gush of hot copper filled his mouth. All of his senses gave out, save pain, and his legs followed suit.

The woman cried out, and went down. Weeche had managed to land one too many solid hits. She groaned quietly, eyes dazed and bleary. He pounced on her prone body, smashing his fists into her ribs and stomach. Spike whipped out a long hunting knife from a sheath concealed under his pant leg, and jumped after him. Derek couldn't even yell Weeche's name before the knife was lodged deep in his brother's side. Weeche's eyes went wide, a dumbfounded expression across his face, as Spike yanked back and stabbed him again. The woman scrambled dizzily out of range.

Derek made a feeble attempt to crawl forward, most of his front teeth gone and his nose caved in. Weeche made a quiet wheezing sound, then fell face-down on the ground, where he lay limp and motionless. Spike didn't let up, the knife flashing over and over. Ribbons of blood splashed across the floor and walls. The putrid smell of recent death grew thick in the cramped space.

The woman climbed slowly to her feet, breathing hard and clutching her ribs with one arm. "Spike." She groaned, and spit out a mouthful of blood. "Stop. He's dead."

His arm paused mid-air, and he turned to look up at her, face streaked with blood. Spike made a noise that was halfway between an aggravated sigh and laughter, and buried the blade in Weeche's corpse one last time.

"Weeche," Derek mumbled, vision blurry as he reached one hand toward his body. "Y'dumb som'bitch, I tol' ya..."

A pair of small boots entered his field of vision. Derek was still processing the information when cold metal pressed against his temple. He didn't even hear the shot when the woman pulled the trigger.


End file.
